


Their first sticky, sweaty, smooshed-up kiss

by systemofhaimish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mycroft and Mrs Hudson KNOW, One Shot, Pre-Slash, Sherlock's sheet, Unresolved Sexual Tension, suggestive ice cream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/systemofhaimish/pseuds/systemofhaimish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sticky, sweaty, summer days call for ice cream and suggestiveness. ;)</p><p>Critiques and comments are always welcome! :D This is my first time writing fanfiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Their first sticky, sweaty, smooshed-up kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [my best buddy bri](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=my+best+buddy+bri).



> Thank you's go out to my wonderful betas, empyreansun and thegirlwiththebrokensoul.

When John walked into the flat, his eyes were on his phone, reading the latest text. "Sherlock." he called into the living room. "What exactly does your brother mean when he--"

The phone clattered to the floor as John's eyes wandered up, then hastily back down. "Sherlock." he repeated, this time with an entirely different tone. "As hot as it is, I don't think it's a good time to be doing that."

The detective kept his gaze steady on the ceiling above the sofa, where he lay sprawled. Of course, this was hardly surprising in and of itself. Somehow, his lack of any clothing whatsoever made this instance different from all those other times. To be fair, there had been that one instance at the Buckingham Palace, but even then, there was nothing to see because it was all under a sheet. Most of the time. Even straight-as-an-arrow John had to admit that not all of the pleasure from that memory was from watching the grown man act so stubborn.

Sherlock finally turned to stare at his flatmate, as if he could read his mind, making the second man incredibly flustered in his attempts to maintain eye contact with the grey flooring under his feet. "It's not hot, John, it's humid. There's a difference."

With a frustrated sigh, John leaned down to retrieve his phone, idly gazed in the direction of the window across the room. The curtains were only half-drawn, leaving a view of the street where he had just been. A thought occurred to him, and he glanced back at Sherlock, who had turned away by then, leaving his flatmate with a wonderful view of his lean arse. John chuckled as he stood again, recapturing the other man's interest.

"What's so funny about that?"

"Oh, nothing much," John sang, amused. "Mycroft texted me, telling me to find you some pants. I'm sure he's enjoying the view very much."

In a single fluid movement, the naked man had risen from his perch, marched to the window, and violently pulled the thick curtain shut, leaving the room significantly darker and cooler than before and blocking the two from view of all CCTV cameras. That being taken care of, Sherlock turned sharply to John, grabbed the phone, and began furiously typing with his thumbs.

"For God's sake, what are you--"

"I’m surprised Mycroft even has the time to be watching me. Lord only knows what Lestrade could possibly doing with all this free time, seeing as how there haven’t. Been. Any. Cases." On the last word, Sherlock gave a final, dramatic jab at the phone before slipping it nonchalantly back into his flatmate's hand and marching back to the sofa huffily.

Sliding his phone back into his pocket, John moved toward his armchair and sat down. "You know, if you're that bothered by the weather, you could always find a nice air-conditioned cafe or something like I did. We just have to make do until Mrs. Hudson gets someone to fix the blasted system.”

The detective scoffed, amused. "I didn't even realize you were gone."

John closed his eyes in an effort to stifle his frustration and began, "Sherlock--" but was interrupted by a great flailing of pale limbs and a cry of "I'm bored, John!"

Finally, the two pairs of eyes met--concerned but firm brown against sharp, anxious grey. John spoke first.

"What could possibly be more boring than sitting around the flat, in the NUDE, no less?"

Sherlock gave an enormous, exasperated groan and spat out his answer. "People. The people outside this room are all stupid. The world is boring. There's nothing to do unless there's a case."

There was silence again for a moment, but John broke it again, cheekily. "Are you saying I'm NOT stupid, then?"

This seemed to stump the genius detective. He opened his mouth once, then closed it, finally at a loss for words. In a sulk, he rolled back around to face the back of the sofa, once again exposing his backside. John wasn't sure whether to be appalled or pleased, on both accounts. He chose not to dwell, and instead rubbed his palms over his thighs.

"Well then," he began as he rose to stand. "I'll go pick up something from Tesco to cool you off? What do you want? Ice? A fan?" He noticed the sheen of a fine layer of sweat across the young man's back. "Maybe a dishrag?"

Sherlock gave a "hmmph" in response, which John took as his cue to leave. "Alright, I'll leave you alone, but when I come back, I expect you to be CLOTHED, or else I just might walk out entirely."

With one last sneaky glance at that perfect white arse, he made his way down the stairs, leaving Sherlock curled up like an indignant child.

\---

Thankfully, 221B was still standing when he returned, although that was never quite enough, with Sherlock's history of boredom-inspired experiments. John hurried up the stairs and hoped his flatmate had at least bothered to cover up.

Thankfully--or maybe regrettably--he stepped into the living room to find Sherlock still sprawled across the sofa, as if he hadn’t moved at all, discluding the sheet thrown carelessly over his midsection. Satisfied with the state of the flat, John crossed into the kitchen and began unpacking his bag of groceries.

\---

“Here.” John sat on the coffee table and held the bowl out for his flatmate. Sherlock sniffed distastefully and sat up.

“What is it?”

“It’s called ice cream.” Sherlock showed no change in expression. “Surely you know what that is.” The man blinked. “You know, it’s... made from cream.” Still unrewarded in his efforts, John sighed. “It’s cold. It will cool you off. Just eat it!”

For an instant, John was nearly certain the other man would comply, but as Sherlock made to lay back down, aggression took over and he jabbed a spoonful forward.

Sherlock’s eyes widened, but his razor-sharp reflexes were outmatched--the spoon had met its mark. One hand shot up and knocked it out of his mouth, leaving a streak of vanilla across his slightly darker cheekbone.

The results were instantaneous. John triumphantly noted the way Sherlock’s pupils dilated as his Adam’s apple bobbed in a swallow. He pulled his lips together and noted,”it’s sweet.”

John shrugged. “I bought a few different kinds, if vanilla’s not good. You should eat up, before it melts. Even the great Sherlock Holmes has to eat sometime.” He offered the bowl forward. Sherlock first stared at it, then took it with trembling, unsure hands. Their fingers brushed against each other, wet with condensation from the bowl. Slowly, with the delicacy of a master violinist, Sherlock retrieved the tossed spoon from his chest and dipped it into the bowl. John stared, tense with the anticipation of being right for once.

A tentative tongue poked the white glob before Sherlock allowed his lips to part and take in the entire thing. Even after he had swallowed the ice cream and pulled the cold metal from his mouth, Sherlock continued to lick the spoon with long, broad strokes, making John very uncomfortable, for one reason or another. Long seconds passed before John finally snapped, “there’s more in the bowl, you know,” his face turning visibly pink.

Sherlock stopped to glance at him, thought for a moment, then cooly replied, “I’m collecting data.”

Unbelievable, John thought, disbelieving. Now he’s just being a prick.

He shook his head to dislodge all the dirty thoughts evoked by Sherlock’s fancy tongue-work and cleared his throat once. “You, uhh.” He struggled to find the best way to go about pointing it out. “There’s some ice cream. On your face.” His flatmate furrowed his eyebrows slightly. “Here, I’ll get it.”

With nothing else to wipe the streak with, John stretched his fingers forward and stood to reach the detective in a caress. As he extended his arm out, Sherlock suddenly kicked out a leg, knocking him forward, right into his chest.

“Sherlock! Why did you--”

Sherlock slid an arm between their chests and pulled out John’s hand, pinned between his bare chest and the bowl, all now coated in white ice cream. With that devilish tongue, he traced a path across the palm. Just as John was about to protest again, he downed an entire finger.

A strangled noise came from John’s throat. He could feel Sherlock’s tongue exploring his joints. He could feel Sherlock’s stomach bob as he swallowed. He could feel--

He could feel the plain white sheet, the only thing covering Sherlock’s body, shifting.

Or maybe that was him.

The air was hotter than it had been all day. Their sticky breaths caught inside the gap between John’s bright red cheeks and Sherlock’s soft, blood-filled lips. John felt like he might almost pass out. “Sherlock...” he mumbled. “Really, what are you doing?”

He almost regretted it as his fingers were pulled from that delicious cavern. The air, in contrast, felt icy.

Three impossible words spilled from Sherlock’s mouth: “You’re right, John.” The other man looked startled by this statement, so he continued. “You are smart, and I do like ice cream.” He brought the hand up again, and this time smeared ice cream across John’s mouth. “I’m collecting data.”

Their lips were suddenly pressed against each other, to match the rest of the lengths of their bodies. Out of sheer desire, both had moved forward to meet the other--their first sticky, sweaty, smooshed-up kiss.

They hadn’t even pulled apart yet as John began to mumble, “Of all times... Please don’t do this to me now, Sherlock. It’s just too hot!”

Immediately, the detective pulled away. He let out an “ah” in a tone cold enough to make his flatmate shiver. “I see. I must not have deduced correctly.” He pushed at John’s shoulders and began to sit up. John, realizing his mistake, pushed back.

“No, Sherlock, that’s not what I meant. I-- This is fine. Really. I-- I liked-- I like this.” His words didn’t seem to have any impact. “Really, please. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just the weather...”

Sherlock successfully managed to dislodge the other man with a great shove. Finally free, he stood, wrapping the sheet firmly around his lean frame. Desperately, John reached out for it, trying to tug it loose, but Sherlock’s clenched grip was too strong to let it slip again. However the pull came unexpectedly, and so both man and sheet came tumbling down into John’s lap. Seeing an opportunity, John gave Sherlock’s torso a great bear hug to hold him in place.

“Let go of me,” the man seethed, wriggling to free his trapped arms. With every effort, the sheet slipped off his shoulder a few more centimeters, revealing a great expanse of pale skin.

Despite his attempts to stay in control, John’s reply came out forced. “Sherlock, I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry! If the blasted AC would just turn on, we could do whatever we wa--”

The wrestling turned sideways as they fell onto the floor. In the confusion, Sherlock managed to wrench himself free, and was attempting to crawl away, sheet abandoned, as John lunged to reestablished his grip around his waist.

“You ignorant prick!” John belted out. “Just hold still!”

With all the noise they were making, it was no surprise that neither noticed Mrs. Hudson’s gentle plodding up the stairs.

“Boys!” she called gaily. “I fixed the air condition--” She stopped mid-sentence and stared.

The men suddenly realized how suggestive their positions were--Sherlock on his hands and knees, naked no less, with John bent over him, hands on his waist, wearing, of all things, an ice cream-covered t-shirt. As it clicked, Sherlock scrambled for the sheet and hastily covered up.

To both their surprise, the landlady let out a cheery laugh and declared, “I suppose I’ve fixed it just in time!” She gave a wink and began her descent back down. “I see how it is with you two. Have fun, but don’t be making too much noise, now!”

John sat back on his ankles, dumbfounded. “The AC is fixed.” As though proving his point, a sudden blast of welcome cold air burst forth from the vent above their heads. He had the urge to laugh. “Sherlock, it’s okay now!” When he turned to find him, Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the floor, clutching the sheet to his chest with a betrayed expression like John had never seen before. Suddenly, John knew how to make everything right.

“Sherlock,” he said again, taking great care to be gentle and soft. He reached out and caressed his flatmate’s sharp cheekbone. “Let me prove to you how sorry I am.”

It only took one more delicious kiss for Sherlock to melt back into John.


End file.
